You would think that the joy of being pregnant would erase the traumatic ordeal that had been infertility.
Don’t get me wrong. I was overwhelmed with happiness that I was finally pregnant, but I was also consumed by fear. I’m aware that most women experience fear of loss. Pregnancy is scary. However, I truly believe fear is compounded when you’ve had a loss or gone through infertility (or worse, both).
The desire to be a Mother was so encompassing that I couldn’t imagine living without realizing this dream. Every ounce of my future happiness was dependent upon the growing life inside of me. It was hard to shake the thought of something happening to my baby. I feared what I might become if I experienced another loss. I was out of funds, energy and hope. If I lost this pregnancy I knew that I’d become bitter, hopeless and depressed.
There is a weird limbo to being pregnant after you’ve fought an infertility diagnosis. You have a foot tentatively in both worlds. Until there’s a baby in arms, it’s hard to get your mind out of the world you’ve just left. You’re so used to being entrenched in it.
In spite of this, I LOVED being pregnant. I embraced my changing shape. I documented each month by going to a local photographer. I wore the most figure hugging clothes. I embraced the light whilst silencing the black fear that lurked beneath the surface. I was conscious of being as positive as possible to infuse my future son with as much bright energy as I could. And I was genuinely happy.
I didn’t equate being pregnant with having a baby though. I know this sounds insane. It felt like it was happening to someone else, not me. Ultrasounds were an out of body experience. That baby was actually inside of me? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. And while I loved being pregnant and was beyond excited to be a Mother, I didn’t believe it was going to happen until I was on the operating table waiting for him to be born. There is nothing like a surgeons knife to give me a reality check!
Before that flesh and blood boy was placed on my chest I had fully pictured him only as a cartoon character. A Pinocchio of sorts. Like I was the Geppetto wishing for my real boy and never computing he was there all along.
Once my son was in my sight I knew him. It was him all along. I knew who he was and I loved him beyond anything I felt possible. The relief… now I could see him, touch him and hold him it felt like I finally had control. Infertility was behind me.
It’s one of the hardest things to explain to anyone other than a person who has lived through it. I named it infertility PTSD but have since discovered that its a recognized syndrome. I was never diagnosed with having it but there’s no other way to describe how it felt than this.
I thought these feelings would disappear once my son was born but in a strange way they actually just changed shape. I think they’ll always be with me in some form.
I’d love to hear from others who have had these feelings. How long did they last for you and did you feel like they changed once the baby was born?